


heaven’s here (it’s right where you’re standing)

by arysa13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Exes, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, School Reunion, Semi-Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28382115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysa13/pseuds/arysa13
Summary: Bellamy isn’t a hundred percent sure why his ex needs him to pretend they’re still together for her high school reunion. For some reason he shows up anyway.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 56
Kudos: 364





	heaven’s here (it’s right where you’re standing)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lightyears](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightyears/gifts).



> Happy birthday Rosie!! Love you loads ❤️❤️

Bellamy doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He told himself he was done with Clarke Griffin three months ago. And now he’s waiting in a parking lot outside her old school, in his shitty, beat-up Ford, the likes of which this parking lot has probably never seen. It’s like nothing has changed. He’s still dropping everything to be at her beck and call, while she can’t even be bothered to show up on time.

A pair of headlights pull into the parking lot, flashing into his eyes, making him squint. The black Mercedes pulls up next to him, and he gets out of his car, pulling at his suit jacket sleeves like a nervous teenager on a first date. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. He won’t allow himself to be affected by her.

His resolution is completely redundant as it turns out, his breath catching and his heart stuttering as soon as he sees her in her floor-length black gown, off-the shoulder, cleavage baring, with a slit up the skirt. He hates her. He wants to ravage her. He grits his teeth as she steps over to him, gripping the glittery black clutch in her hands tightly.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says. He shrugs. “There was—”

“I don’t need your excuses, Clarke,” he bites. “We’re not together anymore. Let’s just get this over with, okay?”

Clarke nods, and she flinches a little at his harsh tone, her fake eyelashes blinking rapidly. He’s not going to feel bad about it.

“Okay,” she says. “Thanks again, for doing this. I know it seems crazy.”

“Yeah, you want to explain to me again why you need a fake boyfriend?”

“Fiancé,” Clarke says, holding up her left hand, massive diamond ring glinting in the streetlight overhead. Something tugs in his chest, but he pushes it back down. The rock is just another reminder of why he broke up with her. He could never have afforded something that looked like that. He was planning on his grandmother’s ring—a sapphire, not a diamond, and a third of the size of the one Clarke is wearing now.

Bellamy laughs humourlessly. “This is ridiculous,” he mutters. Yet he’s here.

“I know,” Clarke says. “It’s just—my high school friends are extremely judgy. If I walk in there alone, they’ll give me all this fake pity, while gloating on the inside that I’m single and they’re all married. I couldn’t think of anyone else to call.”

Couldn’t think of anyone else pathetic enough to agree to this, more like. But he holds his tongue. He’d like to get through tonight without a screaming match like the one he’d started the night he left her.

“So, what? You want to give me a fake name too? A fake job? You want me to be a doctor? A lawyer? Something you can actually brag about?” he snorts.

Clarke looks taken aback. “No,” she says. “I just need you to be you. Look, the truth is, I thought it would be easier with you because we don’t have to make up a fake backstory. Just stick to the truth. Except for the part where you broke up with me. You just proposed to me instead.”

Her voice is flat, unfeeling. Good to know their break up doesn’t affect her in the slightest. That the idea of him proposing to her doesn’t make her voice waver with thoughts of what could have been.

“Right,” he says, his jaw tightening.

“You can still go home if you want to,” Clarke points out. “It’s not like I can force you to be here.”

Part of him wants nothing more than to drive off and leave her here. Screw her fucking fake reputation. But he can’t. Seems like he’s still as fucking whipped for her as ever.

“Let’s just go already,” he sighs. “They have free alcohol, right?”

“Plenty,” Clarke smiles. Bellamy wishes she wouldn’t. He nods, keeping his face impassive.

Clarke tilts her head towards the school, and Bellamy follows her lead. They don’t head towards the front of the school, instead ducking down a path leading deeper into the school grounds, solar lights leading the way. If they’d put in solar lights at his own high school they would have been stolen or smashed within the day.

Clarke leads him to a building set away from the rest of the school, lights streaming and music blaring, letting them know this is the location of the reunion. Clarke stops by the entrance and holds out her arm, clearly expecting him to take it. He obliges, and he hates how natural it feels. How the tightening in his chest won’t let him forget how proud he once was to have her on his arm.

She still doesn’t move to go inside, so he turns his head toward her, only to find her already looking at him.

“Just—act like you love me, okay? You were pretty good at that before.”

She doesn’t give him a chance to respond, pushing the doors open and tugging him inside as soon as the bitter words are out of her mouth.

The first thing Bellamy realises when they step inside is that this building is specifically designed for events like this one. There’s a small hallway, and off to one side is what looks to be a fucking ballroom or something. A far cry from the deteriorating gym where his own ten-year reunion had been held.

This is the kind of world Clarke grew up in. Why she’s out of his league, why she always looked down at him for his upbringing, his job, his friends. It’s only half the reason he had to end it, but even if he hadn’t, it would have been the reason she dumped him in the end anyway.

There’s a young girl sitting behind a table in the entryway, nametags neatly laid out in front of her, though there don’t seem to be many left now, more than half the table is empty. She’s got an iPad in her hand, which she’s clearly playing games on. She looks up when Clarke clears her throat, and quickly exits the game.

“Hi, welcome to Arkadia Academy,” she says brightly, standing up. “I’m Charlotte, I’m a senior here. Can I get your names?”

“Clarke Griffin,” Clarke says, and Charlotte scrolls down her iPad until she finds Clarke’s name, and ticks her off. “And he’s my plus one.”

Charlotte locates Clarke’s name tag, and finds a blank one for Bellamy to write his name on in sharpie.

“Have a great night,” Charlotte says, gesturing for the two of them to enter the ballroom. Clarke had dropped Bellamy’s arm to pin her nametag to her dress, but she grabs his hand again now as she leads him inside. He can tell she’s anxious, and he has to stop himself from rubbing soothing circles on her hand with his thumb. He’s not here to do more than sell their fake relationship.

It really is beautiful in the ballroom. Everyone is dressed in formalwear—Bellamy had worn jeans to his three years ago. There’s a band playing songs from the 2000s on a raised stage, and they’re actually good. The decorations are magnificent, and someone clearly went to a lot of trouble to make the event look magical, despite the fact that a high school reunion has to be most people’s worst nightmare. Wasn’t high school traumatic enough without having to relive it amongst the smiling faces of the people you’re pretending you’ve forgotten made your life miserable?

Bellamy locates the bar within seconds, and is about to ditch Clarke to go over there, when they’re set upon by a group of people hugging Clarke and scolding her light-heartedly over her late arrival. At least it means she has to let go of her death grip on his hand, though his skin still tingles from her touch. He shakes it out, trying to get the feeling back into it.

He hangs back as Clarke hugs her friends, wondering how long he’ll have to wait before she remembers to introduce him. But it turns out she doesn’t even have to. One of her friends turns to him as soon as she breaks away from Clarke’s arms.

“So this must be the famous Bellamy,” the blonde smirks. Bellamy can only stare at her, stunned. Famous? He glances at Clarke who refuses to meet his eye.

“Sorry, I—” he says awkwardly, having no fucking idea who these people are. Clarke never saw fit to introduce him to this part of her life.

“Josie,” says the blonde. She then gestures to the tall man with his arm around her shoulders. “My husband, Gabriel. Clarke, I have to listen to you prattle on about your boyfriend every time I call you and you didn’t even tell him about me?” she pouts. Clarke just shrugs.

“I’m Wells,” says one of Clarke’s other friends, holding his hand out for Bellamy to shake. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Nice to finally meet you,” Bellamy says, as if Clarke has been meaning to introduce them for some time.

“You’re a bartender, right?” Gabriel asks, and Bellamy bristles, getting ready to have to defend his profession.

“Yeah,” he says brusquely.

“Clarke says you make the best sex on the beach,” Gabriel grins, and Josie starts cackling.

“Babe, I don’t think she was talking about the cocktail,” Josie winks, and Bellamy finds himself blushing. He doesn’t know what’s more embarrassing, her talking about their sex life with her friends, or his cocktail making skills being the best thing about him.

“Oh my god, Josie, shut up,” Clarke cringes.

“What? You said he—”

“We’re at a school event,” Clarke cuts her off, much to Bellamy’s disappointment. He finds himself intrigued, though he shouldn’t care. But he kind of wants to know what else Clarke has told her friends about him.

“You guys got engaged a few months ago, yeah?” Wells asks, sipping at his champagne.

“Oh my god, wait, let’s see the ring!” Josie squeals, grabbing for Clarke’s hand. Bellamy’s heart skips a beat. She already told them they were engaged?

He watches her as Josie studies the ring, his brow creased, like he’s trying to solve a difficult puzzle. He always felt like that with her a little bit. He’s spent too much time trying to figure her out. She won’t look at him, but her face is flushed red and she’s looking sheepish.

“Oh my god, it’s gorgeous,” Josie gushes. Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Your man has taste. Isn’t it gorgeous, Wells?”

“It’s definitely… big,” Wells agrees.

“Bet you wish you bought a bigger ring for Luna now.”

“Hey, she loves that ring.”

“Where is Luna, by the way?” Clarke asks, glancing around for who Bellamy assumes must be Wells’ wife.

“Couldn’t make it,” Wells says. “Or didn’t want to. She thinks our school is elitist and my friends are a bunch of snobs.”

“Rude,” Josie scoffs. “We’re not snobs, are we Gabe?”

“You’re kind of a snob, babe,” Gabriel grins.

Josie shrugs. “Well. You love me anyway.”

Bellamy is even more confused. Maybe he’s bad a reading people—though he never thought he was before. At least, with everyone except Clarke. But Clarke’s friends don’t at all seem like the judgemental assholes she made them out to be. Sure, Josie is over the top, and she clearly thinks Clarke’s ugly ring is some kind of status symbol, but Wells and Gabriel seem relatively normal and down to earth. She can’t imagine they’d judge her for not having a husband yet.

“We should get some drinks,” Bellamy says. He wants to get Clarke alone so he can call her out on her bullshit.

“Great idea, baby,” she agrees, patting his chest, and his stomach fucking backflips. Shit, she should not be allowed to still do this to him. _He_ broke up with _her_. So why is he the one still fucking hung up on her?

They walk towards the bar, leaving Clarke’s friends behind, Bellamy’s hand on her lower back, out of habit more than anything else. She doesn’t brush him off though. Part of the show, he supposes. They’re stopped every few feet by some old acquaintance, and Clarke introduces him as her fiancé, and they get congratulated on their lie. Maybe it’s these people Clarke wanted to impress, not her actual friends at all.

Once they finally reach the bar, Clarke gets champagne for both of them, then promptly downs hers in one gulp. Bellamy suddenly forgets why he was mad at her, and he frowns in concern.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Fine,” Clarke says. “I guess it’s weird being back here. I haven’t seen those guys in almost a year.”

“They don’t seem so bad. Well, except Josie.”

Clarke laughs, and Bellamy’s chest constricts. He always loved to make her laugh.

“Maybe you need something a little stronger than champagne,” he suggests. He downs the rest of his champagne, then orders them two whiskeys. Clarke drinks it even faster than the champagne.

Bellamy shakes his head, confused. Clarke has only ever talked about her high school days with fond nostalgia. The things she used to get away with because of her reputation as a responsible, straight A student. Her eyes used to light up when she talked about it, cheeky smile on her face. The same smile she’d give him when she’d tease him in public, knowing he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it until they got home, where he’d make her pay for it in such a way that only made her worse the next time, knowing she’d get a good spanking, and an even better fucking. But he’s not thinking about that now.

He’s about to ask her what’s really going on, why he’s really here, why she’s downing her drinks with such vigour. But she speaks before he can get a word out.

“Remember how we used to play fuck, marry, kill with random strangers whenever we got bored in public?” she asks, as the bartender puts another glass of whiskey in her hand. She sips at it this time, and Bellamy wonders if he’s read her wrong again, and the only reason she’d downed the first two drinks so fast is because she’s having fun.

“I remember,” Bellamy says, sipping his own drink.

Clarke scans the room. “Guy with one earring. Lead singer of the band. Woman clapping out of time with the music.”

“Clearly kill the woman clapping out of time. That’s unforgiveable. Fuck earring guy, marry the singer.”

“You sure you want to be a band husband? A life of waiting at home while your husband goes on the road, never sure if he’s with someone else or not?” Clarke teases, her eyes glinting.

“He’s playing a high school reunion. Not exactly the rock and roll lifestyle,” Bellamy points out.

“He might make it big,” Clarke counters.

“I think I could handle it.”

“Okay, but when you catch him in bed with another man when you surprise him on the road, don’t come crying to me,” Clarke laughs.

“Noted,” Bellamy grins. “Okay, my turn. Josie, Wells, and Gabriel.”

Clarke screws up her nose. “Fuck Gabriel. Marry Wells. Kill Josie.”

“You answered that very quickly,” he says, eyes glinting with amusement. “Anyone would think you’ve thought about it before.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I knew you’d ask me.” The way she says it, it’s almost like a challenge. It reminds him of before. Before they ever even got together, when they were just two friends who liked to test each other, push each other to the limits. There’s a pang in his chest, a longing for something he’d forgotten he missed.

“Your turn,” he says. Her intense gaze snaps away from him to survey the room again.

“Okay,” she says. “Bartender. Girl who’s taken her shoes off, and…” she looks back to him. “Me.”

Another painful spasm in his chest, as he’s thrust back in time, to a bar in Mexico City, where they’d ditched their friends and were playing this game for the first time. The sexual tension between them that night was so fucking thick he can still remember exactly how it felt, how he was sure he was going to have to find the closest looking woman to Clarke that he could and fuck her all night just to find some semblance of sanity, so he could keep their friendship intact.

And then she’d said _that_. _Fuck, marry, kill—bartender, girl who’s taken her shoes off, and me_.

Bellamy hadn’t wasted time answering with words—the answer was obvious from the way he ravaged her in his hotel room that night. And somewhere along the way, she went from _fuck_ to _marry_ , and then, like some sort of cruel, self-fulfilling prophecy, she ended up at _kill_. Looking at her now, he’s not sure which one he’d rather do.

She bursts out laughing then, as he stares at her, speechless, lost in an unwanted flashback.

“I’m joking,” she says, and he starts laughing too.

“Fuck, you had me going,” he says. “I really didn’t want to have to kill you, but—”

“I know,” she says quickly. “I know it’s over, Bellamy, I’m not trying to change that,” she assures him.

He nods. He knows that. He’s here because—well, he’s still not entirely sure. Either of her reasons or his own. He opens his mouth to ask her—enough being side-tracked. He’s clearly not here for her friends, and he’s not here for her. He gathers he’s here for _someone’s_ benefit—his bet is her stuck up high-school acquaintances. He just wants her to admit it.

But then the band starts playing I Kissed a Girl by Katy Perry, and Clarke’s eyes light up, and Bellamy instead finds himself saying, “do you want to dance?” She nods enthusiastically, and grabs his hand dragging him to the dance floor.

She’s not the best dancer—a fact he already knew about her. But what she lacks in technique she makes up for in enthusiasm. His own dancing is mostly just jumping around at this point—he actually feels kind of like he’s at a middle school dance. Except this time, strangely enough, he seems to be having fun.

“I would have thought you would hate this song,” he says. They’re dancing close enough to talk, and to keep up the ruse, but without actually touching each other. “Isn’t it kind of offensive to bi women and lesbians?”

“Bellamy,” Clarke grins. “I was sixteen when this song came out. I wasn’t exactly thinking about the offensive stereotypes she was promoting. I was just thinking about how I too kissed a girl and liked it. This song made it okay for me to kiss girls without actually having to come out.”

He smiles. That actually makes sense. And it’s seems so strange he’s only learning this now—that there are still things to learn about her. “Now I wish Justin Timberlake or someone brought out a song about platonically kissing guys,” he says.

Clarke laughs, and his heart feels full. Maybe it’s the champagne and the whiskey and the song but—he doesn’t think he hates her. Whatever resentment he held for her at the start of the night seem to have evaporated. All the bullshit that made him break up with her, while not forgotten, seems like water under the bridge. And he wonders if they could maybe even be friends again one day.

He thinks he could settle for that—being friends with her. He’d still get to have her in his life, but things like his job, his bank balance, his social standing, his background—they wouldn’t matter so much.

The song ends abruptly, and they come to a halt, along with the others on the dancefloor, but the band doesn’t pause, straight into the next song. Slow, gentle guitar that makes Bellamy’s heart swoop. Clarke averts her eyes shyly, like they’re teenagers trying to hide a crush from each other, both wanting to pull each other close but too scared to make the first move.

It’s not until the singer starts singing that Bellamy recognises the song as The Only Exception by Paramore. He holds out his hand, if only to keep up the charade. What would it look like if he left his supposed fiancée out on the dance floor the moment a slow song came on?

Clarke takes his hand, and he pulls her in close, just barely touching, his arm on her waist like they’re going to waltz, though he wouldn’t know the first thing about how to. He kind of rocks from side to side, focused on something other than Clarke. If they’re going to be friends, he can’t risk thinking of her in a romantic way.

But before the first verse has even finished, Clarke puts her lips to his ear, disentangling her hand from his.

“This isn’t convincing,” she whispers. She winds her arms around his neck then, and Bellamy is left with nothing to do with his than wrap them both around her waist, while she leans her whole body against his, her head the perfect height to fit on his shoulder.

His heart stutters. She feels so right pressed up against him, in his arms, like she was never really absent from them. He breathes in the scent of her familiar lavender shampoo, and it’s like a tidal wave of nostalgia and longing crashing over him. Want floods through his veins, his cock responding to the smell like some kind of fucked up classical conditioning.

They sway gently in time to the music, the singer crooning the lyrics, rudely reminding Bellamy that he’s never really loved anyone like he loves Clarke. He fucking aches for her, and here, like this, he wishes he could just go back in time and _stay_. Because as the song reaches its crescendo, he becomes increasingly aware that he can never be _just friends_ with Clarke, because he’s always going to be at least a little bit in love with her.

The final chords of the song fade out, and he pulls his body away, keeping his hands on her. Clarke looks up at him, her eyes catching on his lips, her pupils wide. Bellamy swallows. Their surroundings become distorted and fuzzy. He’s vaguely aware of the band playing another song but he couldn’t name it for the life of him. His hands fidget on her waist, itching to touch her elsewhere, to make her shiver, make her moan.

“Have you had enough of this party?” he asks gruffly, his voice so affected by his lust it’s almost embarrassing. But it does something for Clarke, and she nods, her lips parting. It’s probably a bad idea, but his brain isn’t registering that right now.

He drops his hands from her waist, and he takes her arm from around his neck, just so he can tangle his fingers in hers.

A voice cuts through his oblivious fixation, calling him back to the real world. It’s not _his_ name the voice says, it’s Clarke’s, but it hits him like a bucket of ice water, chilling him to the bone.

Both he and Clarke swing their heads towards the voice, and standing at the edge of the dance floor is Clarke’s ex, Lexa. And suddenly, it all makes sense. He’s not here to impress her old friends, or placate her high school acquaintances. He’s here to make her fucking ex jealous. The ex Bellamy always suspected was Clarke’s one great love. The one Clarke brought up the night he was going to fucking propose.

_ Lexa always brought me here _ . She said the word _always_ , like the restaurant he’d booked two months in advance and whose meals cost the same amount as what his mom used to spend on food for a week was commonplace, like she was sick of it.

And he couldn’t go through with it, because it wasn’t good enough. The restaurant, the ring, the speech he prepared. Him. None of it would ever be good enough for her, and they both knew it. She should be with someone more on her level, someone who could afford to take her to fucking Paris to propose, spend thousands of dollars on a ring, spoil her, make her feel loved. Someone like Lexa. They both knew it, so why bother pretending any longer?

So he picked a fight that night on the way home from the restaurant, told her it was over, packed his bags and slammed the door on his way out, swearing he was done with being second best.

And at the first test he’d failed, crawling right back to her, only to be used in her fucking ploy to get her ex back.

He snatches his hand away from hers like she’s burned him.

“So that’s why I’m here, huh?” he says bitterly. He regards her with the most scathing look he can muster, if only to hide the utter betrayal he feels, the gaping wound in his chest she just reopened.

He stalks from the dancefloor, ignoring her desperate calls of his name as he heads for the exit. Charlotte isn’t stationed in the hallway any longer, and Bellamy pushes through the doors, the tears tumbling from his eyes as a sob tears itself from his chest.

He hears Clarke call his name again, and he quickens his strides turning onto the path, hearing her heels on the pavement behind him. Too late, he realises he’s turned the wrong way, and instead of heading in the direction of the parking lot, he’s walking deeper into the school grounds.

He keeps walking, hoping he can loop back around at some point without having to face her, but it’s dark, and his vision is blurred from tears, and he has no idea where the fuck he is. Her school is enormous. He takes a wrong turn somewhere, and ends up in a courtyard, a dead-end, unless he jumps a stone wall and destroys a garden.

He stops with a sigh, quickly wiping his eyes as he turns back, just as Clarke appears between the columns at the entrance to the courtyard, lit up by moonlight and solar garden lights.

“Bellamy,” she says breathlessly. “It’s not—it’s not what you think, I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what? Bring me here under false pretences?”

Clarke steps into the courtyard. She shakes her head, not like she’s disagreeing, but like she knows she’s been caught out. “I didn’t know she’d be here,” she finishes. “She didn’t click attending on the Facebook event. She was so glad to be done with high school, I never thought—”

“Enough,” Bellamy shouts. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t even know why I fucking came here tonight. Fuck,” he rubs his face. “For a second I thought—it doesn’t matter. I’m never going to be good enough for you. I’m always going to be second best, it’s always going to be her you love. I was _done_ , Clarke. And you fucking call me up and I come running like some pathetic fool just so you can _use_ me to make your ex jealous. I should’ve known better.”

Tears well in her eyes, drip down her cheeks in fat droplets. His chest aches, her pain is his pain, and he hates himself because he made her cry, and he hates himself because he cares.

“Do you really hate me that much?” she says, her voice weak and wavery from her tears. “That you think I would do that to you? That you believe I think so little of you?”

Guilt tugs at him, but he pushes it away. “What am I supposed to think?” he shrugs.

“I didn’t bring you here tonight to make Lexa jealous.”

“Then what?”

She breathes in a shaky breath, wiping her eyes. “What did you tell people? When we broke up, what did you say was the reason? Did you blame me?”

He shakes his head, confused about the change of subject. But then he sighs, resigned, figuring maybe if they talk this out, they can finally both get some closure.

“I never blamed you. Not out loud. I said we wanted different things. That we weren’t right for each other,” he says. He shrugs. “Isn’t that what you said?”

She bites her lip, then shakes her head slowly. “I couldn’t,” she whispers. “I couldn’t say anything.”

Bellamy frowns. “What do you mean?”

“It wasn’t just my high school friends I didn’t tell about the break up,” she admits. “I didn’t tell anyone. Not because I was embarrassed to be single or whatever bullshit I told you before. I just—I couldn’t say it out loud. It hurt too much.” Her voice cracks, and tears start to spill again. Bellamy feels his heart bleeding out into his chest. “I found a ring in the top drawer of your nightstand. I told everyone you were proposing. I was so excited, I couldn’t help it.

And then you _didn’t_ and you broke up with me instead and my mom called to ask how it went and I couldn’t tell her because it just hurt too fucking much so I found this ugly piece of costume jewellery and I pretended you gave it to me.”

Bellamy stares at her, his mouth hanging open, words failing him.

“God, I just realised how it sounds,” Clarke laughs flatly. “If you’re pathetic what does that make me? Crazy, for pretending to be engaged to a man who doesn’t want me? Stupid, for thinking you were going to propose to me in the first place?”

“I was going to,” he blurts. Clarke gapes at him.

“You were?” she squeaks. He nods. “So why didn’t you?”

He huffs out a humourless laugh. “Why do you think? I took you to the fanciest fucking restaurant I could afford, and all you could say was _Lexa used to bring me here_. Lexa, fucking perfect Lexa.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Clarke snaps. “I just wanted you to know, in case you wanted to wait until later to propose. So we’d have our own memory that wasn’t tainted by her presence.”

“I could never give you what she can give you,” Bellamy says. “I’m never going to be able to give you expensive gifts, or a big fancy wedding, or a holiday in a five-star hotel in Paris.”

“And I don’t know what I’ve ever said to make you think I _want_ any of that,” Clarke says angrily. 

Bellamy realises with startling clarity that she’s right. She never asked him for anything, never really had expensive taste, never talked about a big wedding or a huge diamond ring. He just always kind of figured that was for his benefit—so he wouldn’t feel inadequate, so she wasn’t rubbing it in that he couldn’t give her what she wanted. It never occurred to him that she never actually even _wanted_ any of it. 

“You were embarrassed of me,” he says, though he’s unsure now. “You never introduced me to your rich friends, I only met your mom _once_.”

“Bellamy, did you not hear them in there? I talk about you so much it’s embarrassing. I brag about you all the time. I wasn’t embarrassed of _you,_ I was embarrassed of _them_. I thought you’d hate me if you knew the kind of people I was friends with. All I ever wanted was _you._ God, could you not see how happy I was?”

“I don’t get it,” he says dumbly. “I still don’t get why I’m here tonight—you could’ve just made my excuses like Wells did with Luna. If I’m not here to make Lexa jealous, then _why_?”

“I just—” she falters. “I missed you. I just wanted to see you, and I knew if you thought I needed a favour you’d come. I wanted you to see this part of my life, to meet my friends. I didn’t want to come here with anyone else by my side. And I’m still fucking in love with you.”

“Clarke—”

“I kept thinking you’d come back, you know?” she says. “That it was just a dumb fight, and you’d come back and we’d work it out.”

God, he feels fucking wretched. Did he really fuck up the one good thing in his life because of his own goddamn insecurities? He put words in her mouth, thoughts in her head, made her out to be a villain so he could hate her, when all along it was his own self loathing that sabotaged their relationship.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t good enough. That was never my intention. And I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you. You can go, if you want. I’ll tell everyone you ended it.”

“I don’t want you to do that,” he breathes. He steps forward, reaching for her, and crashes his lips to hers. She responds instantly, her mouth moving against his, a memory flickering to life. “I’m sorry,” he says, still kissing her. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

“Bellamy,” she moans. “I need you. Please. I haven’t stopped thinking about you—”

“It’s okay,” he says. His lips find her neck. “Me too. I missed you so much, I wanted to come back so many times. I love you. I love you.”

Clarke whimpers, though he doesn’t know if it’s the words that elicit the response or the way he sucks at her pulse point just how she likes. His hands skirt her waist, and he backs her up against one of the stone columns, pushing the slit of her dress open to reveal her black panties.

He kisses down her throat to the swell of her breasts, heaving dramatically. Deftly, he unzips the back of her dress and lets it fall from her chest, revealing her nipples, hardening in the cool air. He lavishes her nipples with his mouth, giving each one equal attention, licking and sucking until she can’t take it.

“Please, Bell—” she whines. 

“What do you need, baby?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know.

“My pussy,” she pants. “I need your fingers. Your cock. Please. Please.”

He rubs her slit through her panties with two fingers, arousal forming a wet patch on the black silk. 

“Still get so wet for me, baby. Still so needy.”

She nods, and Bellamy pushes the fabric aside to delve his fingers inside her. She bucks her hips, lets out a gasp as his fingers stretch her.

“Have you been with anyone else?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “I couldn’t. Have you?”

“No,” he admits. “I couldn’t think of anyone else.”

Clarke nods, and he brings his mouth to hers again, kissing her roughly, one hand between her legs, the other gripping her thigh tightly. His body holds her captive against the pillar behind her. 

He removes his fingers from her cunt, dragging them towards her clit, circling it, then pressing down on it, sliding his thumb over it again and again, methodically, agonisingly, until she’s silently gasping for air.

He pulls away just as she’s right on the precipice and she curses him as he pulls her panties down, revealing her swollen pink cunt, shaved bare like she hoped this would happen. 

She lets the panties drop to the ground and Bellamy sinks to his knees to remove them from around her ankles, tossing them into the garden. He hopes one of her old teachers finds them. 

On his knees, he presses his mouth to her slit, slipping his tongue into her folds, teasing her clit. She grips his hair so tightly he fears she might rip it out, but he doesn’t stop.

“Bellamy,” she whines. Her hands leave his hair, and she grabs him by the front of his shirt instead, pulling him back up to her mouth. “Fuck me.”

He keeps kissing her as he undoes his fly and frees his straining cock from his boxers. Her hands join his, and she strokes his length, her touch an electric shock to his nerves. 

He positions himself at her entrance, and she pulls him close, her leg wrapping around him as he pushes inside her, right to the hilt making sure she gets every last inch of him.

She whimpers, and her pussy flutters around him, her head dropping to his shoulder. 

“Fuck,” she moans. “I forgot how big you are. My pussy is so full.”

“I know, baby,” he coos. “You take it so well, so good. Nobody feels like you do. So tight around my big cock. I’m gonna fuck you so good, baby.”

“Please.”

He delivers on his promise, pounding her pussy like a crazed animal, spurred on by her moans of pleasure, so loud he’s half convinced all her old classmates will be able to hear her, and his own sounds of pleasure and exertion aren’t exactly quiet either.

“Can I come in you?” he pants, close now.

“Oh my god,” Clarke whimpers, her voice hoarse and shaky. “Yes. Come in me. I need your come in me.”

Seconds before he spurts his thick load into her, she tightens her grip on him, her cunt spasming around him as she comes, an ego-inflating cry spilling from her lips.

He groans as he shudders through his own orgasm, three months without sex taking a toll on his stamina.

He pulls out of her, getting a thrill at the way his come drips onto her bare thigh. Thinking about going back to the party, knowing she’s got his mess between her legs. Not too soon, though. He’s happy to have her to himself for just a while longer.

“I really am sorry, you know,” he whispers into her hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was so angry. I thought I was angry at you. But maybe all along I was angry at myself.”

“I’m sorry too. I love you exactly as you are. I should’ve told you that more often. I will from now on.”

“I love you,” he whispers, brushing his nose against hers. 

“But you understand now, right? That I’m not interested in material things?”

“So you’d hate it if I bought you flowers, right?”

“Well, I wouldn’t _hate_ it,” she grins. “But I will also be perfectly happy if you steal flowers from the neighbour’s garden to give me.”

“Okay,” he laughs. He kisses her, long and slow, savouring the taste of her. “Should we go back in?”

“You just want everyone to know you fucked me on my old high school grounds.”

“Can you blame me? As if you won’t be looking smug as hell, thinking about your come-filled pussy the whole time.”

Clarke screws up her nose, and he boops it with his finger, knowing she knows he’s right. 

“Half an hour more,” Clarke says. “And I’m requesting the band play all slow songs so I have an excuse to be close to you.”

“Okay,” Bellamy agrees. 

And even though the band doesn’t agree to only play slow songs, Bellamy and Clarke dance like they are anyway.


End file.
